by Laurel Durning-Hammond | Holliston, MA

Rivulets tunnel new courses through ice
that flashes brightly, melting. Mint-blue sunlight,
intermittent, defines shadows of trees.
My knees and thighs are washed in honeyed warmth.
Certain, lacy branches—
candelabras—sway below the blue.
It’s only wind, but my ears are sore with roaring.
I press the solid force that is right now.

There is an elm at the crest of the hill.
My fingers, numb, delight in its rough bark;
the hardened curves are strong, alive, and sure.
I want to taste it, so I do.  My tongue
explores the gritty, gentle bitterness,
the truth of sleepy lichen and of dirt.

Now the wind trips. It teases my back.
The tang of woodsmoke startles
indomitable thawed earth.
Free water falls off the mill roof
and spatters. The gold and glistening shower
smiles, triumphs in its airborne arc.